


Many Stories of Sticks

by InediblePeriwinkle



Category: Henry Stickmin Series (Video Games)
Genre: Drabbles based on Tumblr prompts, M/M, unrelated stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27435484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InediblePeriwinkle/pseuds/InediblePeriwinkle
Summary: Short written stories unrelated but woven into the lives of different pairings, friends, or other groups. What tiny moments get left out of a larger fic?Latest story: Capital Gains Aftermath - Copperright
Relationships: Burt Curtis/Sven Svensson, Charles Calvin/Henry Stickmin, Reginald Copperbottom/Right Hand Man
Comments: 30
Kudos: 263





	1. Overheating Cybernetics- Copperright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First story is an anon request.

“I love you, Reg, but if you keep doing this my cybernetics are going get overheated again-”

“Will you shut the fuck up,” Reginald Copperbottom sent the most scathing look he could muster over his shoulder. “That wasn’t funny, if that was what you’re going for.” 

His Right Hand Man smiled, crooked and fond, lounged back in a chair. Reginald could hear the machinery whirring as he shifted, ominous red glow reaching him even from across the room and reflecting in the mirror. 

Reginald turned back towards his own reflection, exhausted eyes roving over the scars littering his upper torso. 

“You were adjusting badly to them, in case you’ve forgotten,” Reg snipped as he unbuckled his belt, “I- we almost didn’t get you back from that.”

The soft red glow in the mirror moved. Further into view. 

“Nah,” Right’s gruff voice was teasing. “I can feel myself warmin’ all over. Might be too much for me.”

“I swear to bloody Christ,” Reginald muttered under his breath. 

“Wouldn’t do you much good, mm?” 

“Right, you’ve seen me naked in hundreds of contexts. The joke isn’t funny.” 

Roughly padded fingers slipped over Reginald’s soft waist, trailing over the scars there. Another hand, smooth and cool, ticklishly crept along his hip. 

He steered himself not to squirm away from the cold touch, knowing the inadvertent message it sent to the owner of the limb. The cold fingers traced old, twisted marks of past escapes, fights. Straight surgical scars. 

The metal hand moved smoothly and the flesh hand stuttered, jerking slightly in places and shaking in the fingers. 

The previous Toppat King watched, silently, noting every movement. Just in case. 

He’d noticed his metal limbs had improved, and greatly, since the incident that nearly ripped Right from him for a second time. But it had come at a cost. 

Right was slower. His remaining limb was shaky, his face had developed tics in the half of it without cybernetic plates. 

Metal fingers gently squeezed the softening around his stomach, finally wrapping around his torso entirely. 

Right rested his chin on his curly hair, still damp from the shower and free of hair product. 

It was like his body was finally taking to the robotic bits and forgetting how to use the human ones. Reginald had mentioned it to the Doctor, of course, but hadn’t said a word to Right. 

An outsider would never think the giant hulk of a man, brutish and fierce, could ever be self conscious. But Reginald had known him for decades at this point. There was no hiding it from him. 

“Thousands of times,” Right’s voice was gentle against the top of his head. “Still worth watchin’.” 

“Mmn,” Reginald leaned back into his arms, “It still isn’t funny.” 

“It turned out fine,” His Right Hand Man squeezed Reg in his arms. 

“It nearly didn’t,” The ex-Chief shut that stupid idea down immediately. “You didn’t have to watch yourself be operated on, Right. I did. I watched. Both times.” 

He felt the other inhale. 

He’d stared through the glass again a second time, numb, as the Doctor and her other surgeons raced to save his partner’s life a second time. Another. Wasn’t once enough? Wasn’t staring at the gaping wounds of a man he loved once too much? Observing as metal was integrated into his skin, making up for everything he lost. 

His only solace was this time, at least they’d been together, intimate, the moments before Right was ripped away from life. Not alone, bleeding to death on an airship grate. 

He’d lived yet again, the stubborn old bastard, but Reginald couldn’t go through that a third time. 

He couldn’t deal with it now. Struggling to sleep, to eat, to let Right be out of his line of sight. Reg was decent at hiding his feelings, even from Right, but that took a toll on him as well. On both of them. 

Right took it wrongly, and Reginald was trying to work twice as hard to keep the truth from him and silently assure him he wasn’t appalled by his new reality. 

Which was a whole other topic, honestly. He had so many feelings on this. 

Right’s fingers were getting restless. Reginald trailed his fingers over his flesh arm, lifting his chin and dislodging his Right Hand Man. 

His enforcer leaned down, taking the clear sign to kiss him, warm lips and soft breaths against his face. 

Reg pulled away, to Right’s clear disappointment. The ex-Leader patted his cheek, moving to put his clothes away. 

He could feel the other’s eye on him, burning, even if he could ignore the constant red light that followed him across the room. 

Right joked but Reginald was terrified. He couldn’t be what killed him next. He couldn’t go through this again. His facade was shaky as it was and if they ever seriously breached this topic...Reg was afraid that would break down everything at once. 

“Go to bed,” Reginald kept his voice even. Normal. Couldn’t let a strain of worry into his words, the tremble of a hand under the constant stress of his thoughts. Right would notice. He a,ways did. “I’ll be there a moment, darling.” 

Not a word. The light disappeared, left Reginald in shadow, alone. 

He brushed off his coat as he hung it up, staring off at nothing. 

They’d been together for a majority of their lives. Reginald had gotten complacent. He’d taken all of their relationship for granted, too comfortable, too sure of their respective talents to worry seriously. 

He was paying for it now. And who did he talk to? His confidant was the man who actually went through the hellish transition. It hasn’t been pretty. 

Right’s panic when he realized what had been done to him without his consent would haunt Reginald for the rest of his life. 

The Toppat stood, alone, with his shirt in his hands, a faraway look in his eyes. 

He didn’t know what to do. Say. He was trying best he could to let things continue as normal, assure Right that he still loved him without confronting the change itself. 

Things would get better. They had to. 

Reginald threw his shirt onto the couch despite the wrinkles it would undoubtedly have in the morning. Who cared. 

Reg had blinked the tears of stress from his face before sliding under the covers, and if Right was awake, he made no more jokes.


	2. Spicy foods- Curtisson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mediapuppy requested this on tumblr!

Sven was a tired, anxious mess of a man with few places in life where he could go to not feel like eyes were watching him 24/7. It was for this reason that Burt hesitated to say anything overly judgmental. 

After all, the kid came to sit on his desk here in his communications office for lunch because he felt comfortable enough around him now to eat here than skipping meals or eating in his room. Far be it from Burt to dissuade that. 

But fucking hell, his lunch was a literal disaster. 

Burt paused, fork in hand, as Sven unpacked his lunch and chatted about something Reginald had gotten onto him about that was upsetting him today. 

He normally listened to this, Burt was a silently nosy guy and it seemed to help the Third-in-Command calm down, but he just stared blankly and the words never reached his ears. 

Plain white rice, carrot sticks, watermelon. A chunk of plain chicken on the rice. No sauces. No visible seasonings. 

The Swedish idiot was lucky Burt was already into him because his tastes were a damn turn off. He couldn’t hold his tongue anymore. 

“What is that?” The Communications Leader said, staring pointedly. 

Sven paused, mid-sentence, baby blue eyes flitting to the man sitting in the chair. 

“Uh, lunch?” The man said, perturbed. “What do you think it is, Curtis?”

Burt started at it, longer, judgmental. 

Sven was looking more irritated. 

“Just because I can smell yours down the corridor doesn’t mean you judge mine,” The Elite brought his legs up on the desk, despite Burt having another functional chair. “I’m surprised you can eat like that, anyway, being so j-”

Burt’s gaze flit up, mildly interested, and he watched Sven turn dark red. 

“Yeah?” He asked, watching the blond’s eyes flit over his form. “What? Being what?” 

“Nothing,” Sven muttered something else under his breath. Burt hid a smile. 

“Did you make that?” Burt asked around a bite of his own food, twirling his fork in hand. 

“Uh, yeah?” Sven snapped into a carrot stick. “I don’t have people make my food, can you imagine? I’m busy, sure, but I’m not a kid going to school. And cooking is so relaxing.” 

“Mmhm,” Burt stared down at the ugly, plain chicken sitting on plain rice. “How?”

“Eh? How I make it?” Sven tapped his fingers on the desk. “I just baked it.” 

“With what.” 

“...The oven, Curtis,” The Third-in-Command deadpanned. “I don’t understand what you are asking me.” 

Talking to Sven made him nervous sometimes. Burt resigned himself to the fact. He didn’t care to talk to anyone anyway, (funny, right? Working in Comms?) but he never felt nervous. Just annoyed. Somehow the young, attractive Elite did something weird to his brain. He tried to just be outright. 

“Spices, Sven,” The taller man said, “I’m asking about your baking process. Don’t be so snippy.” 

“I am not snippy,” Sven protested. “Just salt. Baked 400, I think. In a dish. I like things plain. Rice has a little lemon in it, though. Brings out the taste of chicken.” 

Burt stared off behind the boy, expression not changing no matter how he cringed inside. 

Sven. Sven Svensson, a handsome, clever, talkative, anxious man. Burt had been watching his missions over the internal communications for almost a year before they met. He’d pictured someone a little different. Had taken the confident looking profile picture as proof, the high success rate of his missions undeniable, had dreamed of someone confident, proud, unbothered. 

Instead, he got this soft-figured, worried man, with a secret sweet tooth and a desperate need to prove himself. His crush had been shaken, then, he’d thought he was over him. 

And then he got to fall in love all over again with the person Sven was, not who he thought he should be. 

But by god this was trying him. 

“You should probably cook with more than that,” Burt said carefully, trying to hold onto his sanity. “You like plain. Try a little pepper. Lemon on the chicken. Rosemary, thyme.” 

“Alright, well what did you bring, Chef?” Sven didn’t look hurt but he looked plenty annoyed. “Leave my lunch alone.” 

Oh. An idea popped into his head, then, something so fucking genius that he jolted up, startling his lunch companion. 

“Here,” Burt’s heart pounded against his ribcage despite his cool outward demeanor. “Try it.” 

“What? No,” Sven protested, but Burt had already gotten him a forkful. “I won’t like it!”

“It’s curry,” Burt said calmly, staring Sven down from under the brim of his hat. “I made it. Bought the spices myself. Try it.” 

The boy stared down at him as the muscular man reached, touching Sven’s defined jawline with his free hand. 

He felt the kid swallow against his fingertips, other hand offering the fork like Sven were a child refusing to eat vegetables. He was actually letting him. The other had stopped protesting, was staring wide-eyed at the Head of Communications who trailed his thumb over the corner of his lips. 

Sven opened his mouth, allowing him to offer him the bite, and that lit sparks behind Burt’s eyes. They bounced around his skull as teeth scraped metal tines, lips still parted and pink. 

Burt was leaning up before he knew what he was doing, wanting to press those lips against his, taste spices against his tongue. To bite those lips red and kiss them soothingly afterwards, was reaching to cup Sven’s face with a desperate, breathy noise-

Sven choked, pulling away like he’d been smacked. 

Burt paused, foggy mind stuttering to catch up as his companion sputtered and coughed. 

He stared at his own hands in the air, equal parts puzzled and disappointed, as Sven gulped down liquids with watery eyes. 

“Nope,” The Swede choked out, “didn’t care for that! No thanks!” 

Burt stared up at the ceiling, expressionless. 

“How can you do that? It still hurts!” Sven seemed legitimately distressed. “I don’t understand how people can tolerate spices. Not that it was bad! I thought it was terrible, but that is just me, yeah?”

He couldn’t say anything. He was busy scrambling through the mess in his own brain. 

“I did not mean to offend you,” He sounded nearly panicked now, “I- I know that I am picky, thank you for-sharing that, I need more water-“ 

Burt had a small fridge under his desk. He set out a water bottle for Sven while he was talking. 

“Oh.” Sven made a breathless sort of laugh. “Thanks.” 

Burt nodded, still tongue tied. 

He’d been about to kiss him. Just out of nowhere. Clearly his abysmal taste in foods wasn’t too much of a turn off, because watching his lips part willingly had nearly sent Burt’s soul from his body. 

Sven looked nervous. Burt felt nervous. 

“Uh, so I’d offer you to try mine,” Sven attempted a flimsy joke, “But I do not think you will like it.” 

Burt shook his head. “No. Thank you.” 

The Swede laughed again. “Yeah, alright.” 

The two of them tried not to look at each other. 

Burt didn’t say another word about seasonless chicken, but allowed himself to fantasize a cooking day. Sven without his nice jacket, shirtsleeves pushed up, learning to make all the things Burt had on his travels around the world. 

In that fantasy, he had the balls to go through with kissing Sven on the lips, and the other didn’t panic or tear up because of mildly spicy chicken.


	3. Winter walks without a coat- Stickvin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aryliascry on tumblr requested: Unexpected nighttime trips to the store are one thing, but unexpected nighttime trips in the *middle of winter without a coat* are something else entirely. 
> 
> I took it slightly differently, but this awoke a lot of memories for me. Thank you!

Charles loved the cold. 

The crisp, dry air cleaning out your lungs, the crunch of snow under your boots, the silence and lack of people around you. Sliding on powdery roads and grabbing onto your best friend to keep from eating shit. 

Yeah, he and Henry were more than a little drunk at this point. All his personal and training experience said they shouldn’t be out in the cold at night, drunk, in winter, and both forgetting to wear their coats. They were inviting disaster. 

But oh, Charles felt a wild sense of joy. The streets were silent, empty, the glow of street lights above reflecting off the snow, not a soul but the occasional snowplow passing by. 

Soft, fluttering flakes settling in his companion’s hair. On his clothing. It gave him an excuse to touch him, brush them off his sleeves. To cling to the other, arm in arm, keeping each other upright. 

And he let him. 

He’d always been tentative, knew Henry didn’t crave touch like he did, need the warm reassurance of a human body. 

In fact he seemed to dislike it. He’d cringed away from Charles a handful of times, Ellie didn’t touch anyone either and Charles had tried to be careful not to touch him. 

Not right now, though. 

Next to him, Henry wrapped his fingers around Charles’ wrist, leaning heavily, a smile pressed against his shoulder as they stumbled back to where they’d been stationed. 

A simple, boring hotel, but filled enough for the holiday seasons that Henry and Charles were sharing a room. 

Charles was not complaining. 

Oh god, not right now, with flakes the size of silver dollars fluttering around them, settling into Henry’s eyelashes and turning him into something ethereal. 

Beautiful, the unhealthy sheen of his skin pinkish with cold, tight lips curved into a lazy smile, dark eyes soft and relaxed under the influence of alcohol. 

Or under the influence of the storm around them. Charles understood. 

“Beautiful,” Henry said, bottles clinking, “Out here.” 

“Yeah,” Charles said, trembly in the best way possible. 

No one else was around. Just clean air and the crackling electricity of Henry’s touch. He felt alive. 

“Reminds me of where I grew up,” Henry’s voice was chattering. 

“Yeah?” Charles repeated, a little more breathless, staring down with a bursting heart. 

“Chicago,” Henry told him without Charles even hinting he’d like to know. 

“Wow,” He said stupidly, aglow. “Neat.” 

Henry didn’t like being touched. Didn’t offer Charles info. And he didn’t push or press, he cared far too much about him to do that. 

But here, in the little moment outside the normality of the world, Henry seemed almost like someone else. No, not like someone else. Like the person he knew without the paranoia. The worry. 

Happy. Henry seemed happy. 

“Montana,” Charles blurted, wanting it all to be equal. “I’m...yeah. I grew up there, wasn’t born there.” 

“You know snow,” Henry said, long fingers still twisted around his wrist, “You understand.” 

Charles understood. 

The feeling of waking in the night to feel the cold against your skin where the blankets weren’t covering. Going out early with wet hair that froze into crunching hanks. 

Early sunsets over a flat horizon glittering in the late light. Fading to purple and then darkness, the pale of the moon setting it alight once again. 

Soft outings in the dead of night, without a coat, twisting reality into something dreamy, filled with a jittery sort of joy for being alive. 

“Yeah,” Charles said, words against Henry’s hair, “I get it.”


	4. Don’t make me do this-Stickvin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon. Thank you!

“Don’t make me do this.” 

Henry doesn’t even look at the gun. He’s gotten used to it, especially during his first year of taking over the Toppats, having gunmetal shaved into his face and threats spit at his feet. 

Today, he stands at the edge of the airship, wind whips at his tailored blue jacket, and he ignores the gun pointed dead towards his face and instead stares at the man behind. 

Older now, tired, sunken eyes in unhealthy skin and a jittery edge to his voice. The wrist that holds the gun is steadied by his other hand. Henry knows he injured it last mission, he read the report given officially. Had seen the wounds close up, before any words were written on paper. 

His fingernails had been caked in congealed blood.

That whole situation had been hairy. They’d almost both been killed, for very different reasons. He thought he’d never see him again after that. 

“You need to surrender,” The military man says firmly. His headset is pushed down around his neck, maybe to hear better over the roar of the wind. “Come quietly. I don’t want to do this the hard way.”

Henry says nothing in reply. He just looks, dark eyes under the brim of a hat trimmed in gold. His hands are by his sides, weaponless, empty. 

“Everyone’s waiting for us,” The ace pilot continues, amber eyes never straying away, “Back on the airship. On the ground. You’re cornered, Henry.”

Henry. Not Stickmin, not Toppat King. Henry. 

“How is your wrist?” Henry asks, looking back to the bandages visible under the frayed cuffs of his coat. 

Suspicion flickers over Charles’ face like a weak flame over a candle. It exists for a moment and then wavers, dissipating to smoke and grudging resignation. 

“Don’t make me do this, Henry,” Charles asks again, a little less firmly. A little less like a soldier, a little more like an old friend. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Henry feels no panic and no rush, despite the glinting metal and the sharp words. He does feel a good chunk of irritation. 

“Then why are you here?” The Toppat King doesn’t move an inch. 

Charles’ lips part. His nose scrunches, like Henry’s said something disgusting, like he’s insulted him. 

“The Toppats have gone too far,” Charles recites words his superiors have drilled into him, given him as reason to exist. “You’ve gotten too big. Too ambitious. You need to stop and I gave you warnings Henry. I gave you a thousand and one warnings.”

“How is your wrist, Charles?” Henry asks again, cool as the metal around his fingers, twisted around his neck. 

The man exhales, silent against the roaring wind but visible, a heaving breath of irritation. 

“I know you pulled me from the wreck,” The solider grits the words out from between teeth. “I know. No one else would have.” 

“They would have,” Henry replies calmly, “I told them all you’re not allowed to die on the field.” 

Charles is someone no one but him is allowed to engage with. And luckily, he’s always gone for Henry. Never given anyone else a chance to take the shot. 

Now, the pilot shifts, boots shuffling over metal grates, a tight look in his jaw. A tense look in his eyes. 

“That’s not-” Charles is struggling, furrows between his brows and teeth on his chapped lips. “Henry, this is my job.” 

“This,” Henry looks Charles in the eye, spreads glittering fingers and feels the wind sift between them, “is more than a job to me.” 

It’s his life. This place is his home, his kingdom, the base of something massive that he himself spearheads. He is in charge of them, all of them, responsible for enhancing their riches and extending the life of the Clan. 

It’s home, it’s his, and Henry isn’t going to back down even for Charles. 

“I have to take you in,” Charles tells him. “I can’t give more answers to why I haven’t been able to yet.” 

“You don’t have to stay there,” Henry offers for the umpteenth time, “I’ll let you fly whatever you want. Put you on missions where no one gets hurt. You can stay.” 

Here. 

With me. 

But Charles is already shaking his head before he even finishes, teeth grit. 

“No,” The man says, a constant answer when it came to Henry. “I can’t.” 

He can’t. 

Just like Henry can’t walk away from this. Can’t submit to prison, be trapped within concrete walls and bars yet again. A caged animal, isolated for life. Thrown back into The Wall where he’ll be watched too closely to make one more escape. 

He’s older now, starting to slow down, greying at the temples like Charles is starting to get lines around his eyes from his smiles. 

Henry hasn’t seen him smile in a long time. 

“Please,” Charles looks so tired. “Don’t make me do this. Please, Henry. They’re all watching.” 

They’re all watching. Henry looks him over. 

In another lifetime, he could have had this man by his side for the rest of his life and been happy. Gotten to learn the answers to everything he ever wondered about him, gotten to memorize the scars he knew lay under his military grade clothing, gotten to learn every imperfection and loved him anyway. 

But he stands alone, tired, caged, with military above and below, inside arresting the last of his Kingdom, and his only friend on the other side is threatening to shoot him. And means it. He touches the trigger, waiting, ready. 

Willing to take his life like a dog, or else drag him away to solitary confinement for life. 

The decision is easy. 

“I won’t,” Henry finally says, and takes a single step backwards.


	5. Workaholic coffee nights-Curtisson

“We should probably go to sleep and stop working,” Burt said, never pausing in his typing, “But how about I order us more coffee instead?”

Sven shot him a grateful look. 

“Please,” He said, sitting precariously balanced on the other end of the Communications Leader’s desk, “I haven’t found anything yet.”

“Not surprised,” The other replied, clicking off onto a new window. “I didn’t know Copperbottom kept so many physical notes.” 

“Yeah,” Sven pulled another folder from the box, regarding it forlornly. “The Chief likes to write things, not type them.”

“Christ,” Burt leans back lazily in his chair. “He has to make it easy for us, huh?”

“Oh, always,” Sven dragged a hand through his hair, scandalously bare of hat, “Going through his things, everything is so mixed together, journals and notes and photos and plans and contracts.” 

Burt looked at him for the first time a while then, tired eyes watching. 

“So many things,” Sven continued, emboldened when Burt didn’t tell him to shut up, “He had some kind of-” He mimed curls by the right side of his face, “Like a metal band. Long hair.” 

There, the Head of Comms smiled, slow and small. 

“Do you still have the picture?” He asked, looking over Sven’s hunched frame. 

“He would kill me,” The Third in Command laughed. “He and Right both.” 

“Right Hand Man?” Burt asked, going back to typing. 

Oh. Sometimes he forgot, while Burt was “Elite” he wasn’t in the position to be casual with the Leaders. 

“Yes...” He almost apologized, fingers drumming against the box until he thought better of it. “Yeah.” 

Both of them were quiet for a second. Sven flipped through another folder, searching for the words he was looking for, wishing the two leaders hadn’t jumped off the radar for their super important fucking whatever mission. 

He needed the codes for that base. There was something there, something coming for them, causing trouble. Was it another government causing trouble? A new Clan? Assassins??

“Sven.”

The man jerked, staring up at Burt, who pointed at two cups sitting on the countertop. 

“I-” didn’t seem them set that down, he almost said, and caught himself. “Yeah.” 

Burt picked a cup and Sven could hear ice. 

Had to be his. Burt only liked warm drinks when he was working. 

He reached for it, but his companion didn’t set it down. It left him brushing hands, his own smaller fingers gripping awkwardly against the taller man’s until the cup was in his hand.

Burt didn’t change expression. Sven was sweating. 

God, he always seemed to notice was a fucking idiot he could be. Burt’s eyes were always on him, which was sort of gratifying and also really awful because he’s Sven. Always doing something dumb, the jittery guy who never really earned his place as Third in Command...

Burt’s fingers were back, wrapping around his wrist this time, and Sven nearly leapt out of his damn skin. 

“Sorry,” The Head of Comms said, but he still didn’t let go. 

“It’s alright,” Sven said automatically, staring back at him. 

Neither of them said anything. Burt held Sven’s wrist, thumb pressed against the underside like he was checking a pulse, but didn’t move or say another word. 

Sven wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, here. The touch was gentle but for some reason felt like it hurt. Burned. It was hot against his cool skin, it felt nice, it hurt. 

Was he supposed to say something? Has he missed some social cue here?

“Hey.” 

He looked up again, jerked away from his thoughts yet again, and god this had to be annoying. 

“Sorry,” Sven said this time, before he could think about it. “I can be...spacey when I’m tired.” 

The thumb against his pulse gently stroked along a vein, soothing and electrifying at once. 

“Well,” Burt tilted his head, eyes never leaving Sven’s face. “That’s what the coffee is for, you know.” 

Sven would die before he took his arm away from Burt right now. He reached with his other hand, trying to ignore the awful sound of folders slipping onto the ground. 

There, Burt smiled for real, a crooked thing that caused dimples in his impassive face. 

Sven’s own face felt hot. 

“Yeah, alright,” Burt reached for his own cup, hand still tenderly around Sven’s wrist, and brought the cup in to gently tap the blond’s. “Here’s to sorting though our superior’s shit because they can’t do their fucking jobs.” 

It was a terrible thing to say, something that could get him into a lot of trouble, and he definitely shouldn’t be saying it to Sven, but damn it all if it didn’t make him laugh. 

Burt squeezed his wrist. 

Sven pretended his hands were shaking from caffeine withdraw. He took a sip of the iced coffee, sweet and topped with whipped cream, but ordered in an opaque glass so others wouldn’t notice the Elites obvious sweet tooth. 

It wasn’t something he told Burt he did. The other just figured it out. 

“Here’s to be a workaholic by necessity,” Sven said when he could trust his voice again. “I need a vacation.” 

Burt slowly withdrew his hand but was smiling, small and soft. 

The lack of touch made Sven’s wrist feel cold the rest of the night.


	6. Love in reality vs dreamed love-Copperright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared to love in dreams.” -Dostoyevsky. Copperright  
> Requested by the lovely being arty-Angie-things on tumblr

Loving someone like Reginald was not easy. 

Right thought he knew that from the beginning. The day Reginald, the gawky young thing all full of ambition and bloodlust, took the title as Chief Right knew any chance for a ‘normal’ relationship was out the window. 

And they hadn’t even been involved yet. Officially. 

Right lifted his eyes, watching the man chew on the end of a pen, staring at a computer screen without otherwise moving. 

He’d thought about this for a long time, to be honest. He was the romantic, in a way, where Reg was pure emotion without intent, Right was the man who focused on consequence. It was why they made such a dangerous combination. Reg had the ideas, Right knew when to steer him away from destruction. 

Reginald had been happy to touch, spend time in his company, live intertwined without thinking long term. Right had been the one to think long term and he hadn’t come away thinking this was how it would be a decade and a half later. 

Reginald was narrowing his eyes now, sneering at whatever words on the screen were offending him. 

Right stayed still, folder still open on his lap, silently observing. His job, after all. 

They stayed together almost every second of every day. He’d pictured them getting closer, until Reginald draped himself over Right’s body as he gave directions, flashed a fancy ring at people who got too close. Stolen moments every last second, shoved against quiet hallway walls or taken in dark closets. 

Reg didn’t really so much as touch him outside their bedroom unless necessary. He might as well have been just a regular lackey. 

And yeah, honestly that was fine. He understood that the Chief couldn’t have any visible weaknesses, they’d had that talk. 

“Fucking stupid,” Reginald muttered to himself. 

That wasn’t what made loving Reginald difficult. No, it was the mans personality itself. 

No one got to see Reg like he did, and he didn’t mean that in a sweetly loving way. 

Reginald Copperbottom was two seconds away from a mental breakdown at all times. Oh, not a crying, sobbing breakdown. Something far more dangerous. Paranoia ran through that mans veins like blood, poisoning every drop until he oozed it. He’d spent too long at the top, had too many people take shots at him at this point, too many people turn around and try to throw him to the wolves. 

Ironically, since Reginald liked to do the same thing. Sweep people’s feet out from under them, remind them who was the Boss. 

Reginald was the longest-ruling Toppat the Clan had ever seen. People didn’t care for that. Reginald knew that and constantly tried to rip into people first, root out problems, figure out where his weak links were and pitch them out. 

At the same time, he built up their empire beyond anything anyone before him had accomplished. Reg was a king. His unstable anger was balanced by his want to do right by the people under him. His Clan, the Family. 

It was what he obsessed over. 

Right watched Reginald twirl his pen over bony, long fingers, nearly skeletal. His left hand was bare, and so was Right’s. 

Reg wasn’t married to him. He was married to the Clan first. 

Loving Reginald as second was harsh, to be honest. Knowing if he had to pick between the Clan and Right, he’d pick the Clan without a thought. 

He’d imagined them being some outlaw couple on the road. Call him a fool, tell him he had no right to imagine anything other than this, being a grown ass man, but he’d wanted that. A traveling couple, causing havoc and pulling insane heists together. Kisses that taste like gunpowder or copper, heated moments before what might be their last minutes alive. 

He’d pictured himself dying for Reginald. Young, younger than he was now. He’d been ready to do it, too, that part had been easy. He’d looked that man in the eyes, that cold fire burning within a lithe body, and knew he’d been ready to die for him. 

Dying would have been an easy decision. Trying to work this out for years on end had been a struggle. 

They’d fallen away but never apart, sewn themselves back together more times than Right could recall. Reginald was greying at the temples now, new lines on his face, and Right had noticed himself slowing out on the field. Dangerous. They were getting old. 

Reginald caught the pen as it almost slipped from his hand, meeting Right’s eye. 

The brunet watched him, face impassive, crafty eyes flitting over him quickly. Analyzing. Right wasn’t the only person good at getting a read on people. 

Especially not someone he’d spent a good portion of his lifetime with. 

“What?” Reginald asked warily, pen tapping against his lower lip. 

Right shrugged. His partner looked annoyed and Right wasn’t in the mood to deal with that. Couldn’t leave either, pity. 

“Thinkin’,” He grunted. 

Reg waited, calmly, eyes looking dark where the brim of his hat shadowed the, 

“Would’ve died for you, y’know,” Right mentioned. “Day one.” 

“Well, there’s always still time,” Reg fired back, immediately jerking his gaze away. Back to that computer screen. 

Tough talk for someone who, seeing Right hit so hard he actually collapsed with the breath knocked out of him, went into a flying rage, ready to kill every enemy in the nearby radius solo for harming his Right Hand Man. 

Reginald did not want that reminder, those tense shoulders told him. 

Right made a lazy noise of dissent. “Less time now.” 

That got Reg’s attention. He pushed himself all the way back from the desk, rolling chair hitting a stack of papers and sending them sliding. The Chief didn’t even turn around. 

“The hell does that mean?” The Toppat Leader looked incredulous. 

Well damn. He opened this can of worms, hadn’t he? 

“We’re just older,” Right stretched, feeling pops in every joint down his side, “S’all I meant.”

“Uh huh,” Reginald stared him down. “That doesn’t make any-”

The man shook himself, but he still didn’t go back to the computer. It might be the longest they’d interacted personally in a while. 

“Never mind,” The Leader mumbled, raising his volume just a pitch next: “I think you need a break.”

Right nearly choked. “Me?”

“Yes, you’re actually worrying me,” Reginald stretched as well, like a cat, still wary and watching. “Come on. I need to think, anyhow, let’s take a walk.” 

Right stood, knees creaking, and Reginald slipped past him towards the door without disturbing any of the file boxes around. 

He watched the man’s back, lined, softer at the edges than when he’d been a grunt in Right’s division. Still straight and haughty as the moment they met, equally ready to whirl around at a moments notice. 

And whirl he did, but without malicious intent. 

“I love you?” Reginald brushed at his moustache, looking over the bodyguard. “You know that, right?” 

Yeah. Right smiled, but Reg didn’t seem any more at ease. 

He was part of the problem. He knew that. He didn’t offer any of his thoughts to Reginald and so nothing would ever change even if he wanted it to. He was part of the problem. 

Protecting Reg from unnecessary stress was part of the way he loved, though, and while sometimes it was hard, it was a decision he continued to make. 

“Love you,” Right assured him back. “Let’s go for a walk.”


	7. Suprising workplace- Curtisson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by the lovely Rivenchu!

Look, he may work in Communications, may have risen to lead the division, but it wasn’t exactly what he’d call his passion. He didn’t really _enjoy_ constant verbal abuse by both upper and lower ranking members, didn’t love working late into nights to keep everyone connected on a super secret network, but there were worse jobs. 

Least he was high ranking enough now to be able to hang up on people if they got too annoying. Lower tier members, anyway, though he’d definitely threatened Elites once or twice. 

The point being: It was alright. 

But he liked his little schedule. He’d get up early, drink something warm and eat a light snack, head to the gym before anyone else and return for breakfast. He’d usually go out, among the ‘civilians’, spend time outside and not locked up in his cubicle. 

He’d pick up a coffee somewhere that actually made decent espresso and head back, avoiding anyone the rest of the day until he had to go to work the next day. Biggest part of the day off: Do Not Make Me Hear Your Stupid Voices. 

So, when he found himself spending his precious day off walking down the West Elite hallway on the base, he felt like he’d betrayed something in himself. Any time he was still hanging around here was more chance for stupid bullshit to get under his skin. 

People glanced at him as he passed, visibly checking for the access card dangling carelessly from his lanyard. Burt wasn’t surprised. He was tall and strong and absolutely unrecognizable. 

Really no one but his underlings at Comms and the Leaders ever saw him with their own eyes. 

The third Leader was who he was trying to find. 

Sven Svensson was the Third in Command, under the Chief and his Right Hand Man. It was bordering on a mentorship, which if Burt had cared he’d think meant Reginald Copperbottom had finally gone insane and decided to _retire_. 

He’d started talking to the guy on his missions, patching him here and there and getting reports of his successes. Far more than his failures. 

Funny, Burt swiped his card through a higher access door, ignoring the careful eye of security. Sven was an anxious chatterbox, flipping emotions quickly between pleased, annoyed, and More Annoyed, average in stature and lacking any of the charm of Copperbottom or intimidation of RHM. Why he got picked was beyond most people, but again. Burt got to see behind the scenes.

Sven was not afraid to actually step up when it was needed. He didn’t find any work below him, which was unusual for an Elite, and he was actually great at chewing people out when they fucked up. His missions were successful and he was quick to think if he was left alone. If he was with other people, of course, he’d get all hung up on whether or not _they_ thought he was doing the right thing, which wasted so much time, was a weakness to ask, he’d have to adjust that if he was ever going to-

Burt stopped in front of Sven’s door. His name on a golden plate next to it, a symbol in the corner. 

The Comms Leader rapped on the door, folding his arms as he stared down at his boots. 

He had a lot to learn, if he was going to take over the Toppats eventually. But Burt wasn’t unhappy with Reginald’s possible choice. 

The possible choice yanked open the door, annoyed, blue eyes accented by lovely bags under his eyes. Those eyes widened. 

“Hey.” Burt said, casually, as if the incredibly long walk up here was nothing. 

“Hi?” Sven brought up his watch, scrolling through something quickly. “Have I- Were we having a meeting today?” 

“Nope.” Burt shrugged at the perturbed look he got, enjoying it. “You always stop by _my_ office.” 

There was a split second of panic across Sven’s face, and then his expression wrinkled. 

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” The boy opened his door further, twisting his hands in front of him. “Come in, I guess.” 

How welcoming. He did show up unannounced, though. 

“I’m between calls right now,” Sven was saying as Burt stepped into his office, “My god, everyone today is being annoying, no one listened to me at all this afternoon, the Chief actually had to step in and that was- that was embarrassing, like I’m a child, you have no idea-”

It smelled nice in here. Burt blinked, breathing in soft florals. Smelled nice and was well-lit, weirdly like sunshine than fluorescent lighting.

“What’s the smell?” He asked, bluntly interrupting Sven. 

“Huh?” He got a weird look as Sven walked around him. “Lavender today. Lavender and peppermint.” 

“Hm.” Burt looked around as the other pulled out a chair at his wooden desk. 

There was artwork on the walls, smeared colors of white, yellow, red, blues. They were the only colors in the room, everything else soft greys and white. And green. 

He had a wild amount of plants in here. Most in white ceramic vases of various sizes, but some on a shelf were sitting, adorably, in little teacups. 

Burt poked one of the strange, square-shaped things growing out from one, earning a tsk of the tongue from Sven. 

“Don’t _touch_ ,” He said in distress. “Those were hard to grow!” 

“What is that?” Burt looked at the weird, alien-like things. 

“Lapidaria margaretae,” Sven rattled off. “I grew them from seeds, so leave them alone, please.” 

Burt looked over at him, a slight smile on his face. 

Sven was sitting behind his desk, lounging lazily, watching Burt closely. 

“You have criticisms for me?” The Third in Command said testily, as if Burt couldn’t spot the pink in his cheeks. 

“See how it feels to be the one being inspected, now?” Burt teased deadpan, moving to sit in one of the chairs Sven had pulled out for him. 

There was a small waterfall in the corner. The whole office seemed very zen, unlike its owner, which actually made sense when he thought about it. 

There were things in here he never thought about Sven having, but somehow fit. 

The plants the neurotic man apparently grew from seeds, a clean space with organized charts on the far wall along with a whiteboard, a small bookshelf with colorful, leatherbound covers. 

There was a closed drawing pad next to the phone, graphite on Sven’s fingertips, and something warm bloomed in Burt’s chest. 

He’d let him in. He didn’t have to. Let him see everything, get a glimpse of a side he hadn’t thought about Sven having, organized and calm and comforting. 

“I like it,” Burt outwardly told him, rewarded with a poorly-hidden smile. 

“Yeah, well,” Sven’s gaze was almost affectionate. “Better than the Chief’s mess of a room. Nearly gives me a panic attack every time I see it.” 

Burt snorted and that seemed to perk Sven up. 

“Can I order you coffee?” The man was already picking up the phone, smiling openly, “Fair is fair, right?”


	8. Cybernetic angst - Copperright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon, along with another prompt I will be doing shortly!

Have you ever watched someone remove the limbs from your significant other? Reginald wished he’d appreciated the time before he had to say “yes”. 

Reginald had been allowed to watch, the only thing keeping him sane had been staring through the window into the surgery room, watching Dr. V work her magic with the struggling corpse of his enforcer.

He was a corpse, too. Good as. Barely more than a hunk of meat, far too silent and red, red, red. Not the red of his hair, the ginger color sprinkled with white, but scarlet. It covered him, not an inch spared and the air smelling like copper. 

Reginald hadn’t moved, hadn't flinched, watched best he could. He’d kept the vitals screen in his line of sight at all times. He couldn't look away even if he'd had the urge. 

He had watched metal be fit, formed, he couldn’t see exactly what was happening but had known the bones in his face were gone, destroyed, on one side. Miraculous, they'd called it, something to celebrate instead of something to punch Reginald in the gut yet again. 

Three limbs. Might be able to save the fingers on his left hand. Part of his face. Unknown if he can still speak. Spine was okay but has brain damage. Definitely will have nerve problems. If it’s successful. If he woke up. 

If he wakes. 

If he wakes. 

If he wakes. 

Right was breathing on his own. That was a great thing. A great thing, Boss. He was no longer going to be induced, was going to wake up any second, going to be fine. Maybe. Might be different. It was extensive trauma, Chief, no one knew what would happen now. But it was good. Cheer up a bit. 

Cheer up. Be at his bedside, full of smiles and warmth, let him wake up to someone he knew (loved) and keep him calm until they could explain the entire situation to him. Once he was coherent. Just be there. 

Reg should be waiting for him. Right had always been by his side from the get go, well before they’d even formed a partnership. 

Had watched out for him when he was a young twenty-something. Thrown to the wolves, forced into bodyguarding and threatened with front lines. Had watched over the kid and grew closer. Became confidants. 

Had been there when Terrence took that nearly-fatal shot, would have been fatal without him. Hadn't minded Reginald's scarlet rivulets, had been coated in his blood and didn't leave until he knew Reginald was safe. 

Had stepped up as his Right Hand when asked, no arguments. Walked side by side with him for years, decades, his unwavering beloved Right Hand.

Kept him safe. Kept him in check. Enforced his orders. Together they’d rebuilt the entire Clan and lifted it to where it was today. Now they were fighting off government agents left and right and Reginald hadn’t given Right a thought when it all was going down. 

He’d stuck by him for the majority of his life. And Reginald hadn’t even given him a second of worry. 

Wasn’t even with him now. 

The Toppat leader heard the door slide open behind him, knew someone had finally stumbled upon his hiding place, but he didn’t give a shit. Who cared. 

Who cared? Right was possibly going to wake up, half made of metal and with irreparable damage to what human bits were left, and Reg had been the one to make that call. 

He made that call. 

“Chief?” Sven’s accented voice reached him even over the roaring wind, whipping at Reginald’s hair and his clothing. “Chief?” 

The Toppat didn’t move. Sven had to have the whole picture, honestly, just looking at him. A rumpled mess, tear tracks on a stoic face, sitting on the floor among empty bottles. Hiding away on a balcony only he or Right ever accessed. 

“God.” 

Yeah. Reginald smirked, resting his chin on arms resting on metal guardrails. 

“Should’ve met me when I was younger,” He said, words spilling from his mouth in bitter freedom. “This was normal.” 

The boy hadn’t moved any further towards him, and honestly, Reginald wouldn’t blame him if he just turned around and left him to his own devices out here. Reg would. 

“He’s going to wake up, Boss,” Sven’s harsh, lilting voice seemed uncertain. “He will be okay.” 

“It’s never going to be the same, Svensson,” Reginald’s voice was tired. His words all fumbled together. “He’d have rather died.” 

“Stop.” 

There, the young thing, a child, crouched into the corner of the Leader’s vision, brows furrowed. “We don’t know this yet.” 

Good kid. Smart, quick, too anxious but could be something. He’d made him an assistant because he was watching, watching, wondering if he was made of sturdy enough material. 

Ironic. Reginald felt damn well made of cotton balls. 

“He told me.” 

This wasn’t information he should be sharing with underlings, but oh. It was burning him from the inside, and nothing he’d had in his stores could out-burn what he knew inside. 

“Right told me if he ever became…if ever he was hurt beyond…” Reginald pressed his lips tightly together, staring out over the patchwork fields of the Earth. “He told me to let him die.” 

Sven was shocked silent, and rightfully so. The words tasted ugly on his tongue, frothy and sour like bile. 

“I knew that. I remembered. I made the choice anyway.” 

The one thing Right had ever asked of him- one of two, actually, and Reginald had denied them both. 

Right only had his left arm left, and his left ring finger was devoid of any type of jewelry. Reginald owed him more than he could ever possibly give the guy, and instead of trying, never gave him a damn thing. 

“You…” The boy seemed to struggle, holding onto his hat in the rushing air, biting his lip, “Did what you thought was best.” 

“Oh, no,” Reginald shook his head, staring out among a blurring horizon of color. “I didn’t.” 

If Right woke up. If he woke. Reginald wanted it more than anything previous in his life and dreaded it just as much. He'd made the choice. Always made this one, no matter what, no matter what anyone wanted even if it was Right. 

“I did what I wanted.”


	9. Drawings - Curtisson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by an anon! 
> 
> Burt finds Sven's drawings.

He hadn’t meant to snoop. At first. 

No, it had been an accident to begin with. Burt had been checking for a notebook of coded coordinates, a plain and unassuming spiral notebook. He’d found a notebook, but not quite what he expected. 

Flipping it open revealed tiny doodles, little top hats and trees and various objects such as vases, cups of coffee, and chairs. Glasses with a penciled shine to them. Flowers with soft strokes of shadow. 

Burt was mystified. He couldn’t draw as much as a stick figure, much less something nearly 3D, and he’d flipped through with a coffee in hand and a good chunk of curiosity. 

Sometimes it was harried little doodles in the corner, patterns spiraling from the center outwards. Stars, moons, subs, geometric patterns. 

Sometimes it was quickly-sketched portraits, he could tell The Chief from how the man was touching his face, a looming figure behind him that had to be his Right Hand. 

A few Elites made an appearance, which meant this wasn’t a notebook from one of his underlings. Someone high up, enough to be in meetings with Copperbottom himself. 

There he was again, more defined, a blantantly annoyed expression on his face that was actually really funny. 

Burt took a sip of his drink. That’s how he seemed to look whenever Burt had to talk to him. Always annoyed or overly assured of himself, which was annoying. Being head of Communications mant he never got Copperbottom in a good mood. Ever. 

The drawings were good. Hastily done, but capturing motion and the weight of clothing in them easily. Sketchy but elegant, almost entirely different from the nervous doodling scattered throughout and often sharing the same page. 

Burt knew the artist at this point, of course. The notes on every other page were in Swedish. Which, Sven had told him once, made him feel a little less like people were judging what he chose to write down if they couldn’t read what he was writing. 

It was just...weird. Burt tapped his thumb against the cup in his hand. He’d never thought of Sven as the artist type, but now that he thought about it he wasn’t sure what even qualified as an artistic type. Maybe he’d judged Sven’s flightiness in everything but his hyperfixations a little too harshly. Which made him a bit of an asshole, huh? 

Oh. Now he was starting to find himself in here. 

I mean, it had to be, a broad-shouldered figure hunched over a desk in a chair too small for him. A bored expression, headphones, a tattered hat. Burt was flattered by the attentiveness of the artist to his jawline and pecs. He was pretty sure he didn’t look that ripped when slouching like that. 

He flipped the page, seeing more of Copperbottom, leaning against something with a puzzled expression. Gremlin from Front Lines looking like she was mocking someone. Howie with a tentative smile. Hampton looking crafty. Himself, offering the artist a soft smile that Burt felt weird looking at. 

His stomach fluttered, seeing the warmth sketched in his eyes. _How_ someone could actually capture emotions in someone’s face was beyond him, but here he was looking fond, in a way that felt secret. It made his skin crawl in a way that wasn’t overly unpleasant, if that made any sense. Just private. 

Sven didn’t notice things like that. He certainly never mentioned them. Burt absolutely would have noticed if he said something about the way he- not that he was staring, lovingly, into- I mean- 

He turned the page again, quickly, trying not to smudge it. It took up nearly the entire page. The next few pages were back to nervous doodles and Burt looked at them like they had answers hidden among the scribbles and crooked Swedish writing. 

There was such a soft, intimate thing in seeing the way he wrote. Drew. Kind of like having a look inside Sven’s brain.

It warmed his icy heart a little. 

His door swung open, hitting the many filing cabinets behind it. 

Sven paused, mid-sentence, and Burt stared up at him like a guilty child. 

He watched the blond’s pale face somehow lose the little color it had, and he made a strangled, garbled sound as he dove for the book. 

Burt held it up to him, face expressionless, heart pounding in his ears. 

“ _What did you see_?” Sven’s beautiful blue eyes were wild. 

“I-” Burt gestured, keeping eye contact, to the still-open journal. 

He hadn’t meant to snoop. Sven always left shit on his desk, he’d been looking for his notebook, got sidetracked. He ought to say something about that, probably. Even a ‘whoops’ would be better than just staring. 

But, then, a look of relief diffused over Sven’s face and Burt’s brows furrowed. 

“Good,” Sven snapped the book shut. “Stop being so nosy.” 

Aww, he’d taken that term from him. Burt finally managed to take a breath, barely registering that thought as it passed through his head. There was something more tantalizing taking up his brain power. 

“What else is in the book.” Burt didn’t deserve to know and he didn’t care. He stood, watching Sven gape, hands resting on the desk. “Sven, what else is in there?” 

As quickly as he turned white, he was quickly turning red. And his gaze was wandering. Burt might burst into flames right here.

"...Me?" Burt asked, feeling the world tilt a little bit. "More, I mean?" 

“I-have-things-to-do,” Sven crammed the words together as he scrambled for the door, tearing out of it like a terrified man. 

Burt thought about it for a second. 

Yeah, Copperbottom needed him too badly to throw him off the airship. 

Burt grabbed his old jacket and flew after him, hiding a grin at the flabbergasted look on his underling’s faces.


	10. Capital Gains - Coperright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookiequeen32 asked for a drabble on the aftermath of Capital Gains and I loved the idea. Thank you!
> 
> Warning for a ton of things, really. Don't read if you're in a jittery mood today, friends.

Being arrested had been humiliating.

His face was plastered over everything, in highly unflattering ways. The best lawyers he could get still had him incarcerated, still forced him into this mess. He was quite nearly sent to the wall, where people like him fared poorly if they lived the week at all.

Reginald wore grey, sat alone in a cell, and waited. 

Thank everything he was segregated from the rest of the prison populace. The guards were bad enough, abuse at every corner chipping away at the ex-Leader’s ego. He wasn’t sure how he’d endure it from the other prisoners. 

He could try to cause a stir in here, he was still every bit as charming and manipulative and dangerous as he was when he was young, but. Well. 

Something was amiss, because it hadn’t gone well so far. 

Four months in, according to an undercover Toppat masquerading as his only living relative, they started the space plans. They started it. His Magnum Opus. 

“The station?!” Reginald had nearly leapt from the table, heart in his throat. 

His contact had nodded, casually, sweating profusely as they looked at the guards. 

He’d settled back down, pulse pounding in his ears, a dizzy sort of smile across his face. 

Oh, this was it. Oh, _Right_. That magnificent bastard. 

“Tell him I’ll be waiting,” Reginald instructed, knowing Right would hear the words behind the words. “I’m looking forward to seeing it in action.” 

Looking forward to seeing him again. So much so that he didn’t notice the slight wince on his contact’s face. 

He’d actually slept that night, a gleeful sort of joy thrumming in his veins. 

You see, if they launched successfully, they could come down at any point and cause some trouble. Clean heists, swift break-ins, and break-outs as well. They could come and get him. They could start again, rebuild, he could continue his mentoring of Sven and keep stacking cards for the Toppats for when he was gone. 

He could see his bed again. Eat a full meal. Not be harassed, touched, struck, taunted every second of his existence. 

Reginald nursed a black eye with little more than his own sympathy, silently biding his time. He’d kill them all, once he was picked up. He would. For daring to treat him like this. 

They were taking a long time. 

Reginald had a busted lip and bruises under his clothing the next time his contact showed, but even that didn’t dampen his spirits. 

“Tell me,” He said, eyes alight. “How far have you gotten?” 

“All is good,” The contact said, a reluctant smile even on their face, “Give us a while to get settled. We’ll come back and _visit_.” 

Reginald had felt enough joy that it kept him going another four months. He was going home. Soon. 

He carefully kept his hair short, tried to make it even, delighted in the thought that he’d be back in a comfortable bed with his own bathroom so, so soon. And among people, ones who respected him. Treated him like a human. 

He missed the annoying little cretins he worked with, Sven and his nervous rambling and startling competence, Gremlin’s gang of fiery ne'er-do-wells, Burt Curtis and his strange sense of humor, Hampton’s condescending helpfulness. 

His Right Hand Man. 

He’d nearly wrung the truth of his new appearance from his contact’s neck. God, the number of days Reginald lie awake wondering if he was alright. Cybernetics. Christ. 

He needed to see him again. However much of him was made of metal, all of it was loved, adored, wanted, and he’d make sure Right knew that immediately. 

How proud he was, the space station! The Toppats in orbit, their greatest achievement to date. 

A good while back, when neither of them had even spoken to one another yet, someone told Reginald that Right (Wright, back then,) was exceptionally dim. Not good at thinking, only following orders, was slow to implement ideas, silent and stupid. 

Right was quiet until he was pushed too far. Right preferred to listen and would execute ideas in his own time. He thought too much, honestly, and all to himself where his thoughts wouldn’t harm anyone. He cared deeply for the people around him to the point of self-destruction, and Reginald loved and hated it about him. 

He wouldn’t have to worry about burning this place to the ground. Once Right found out the horrors Reginald had endured, he’d kill them all himself. 

Reginald held those comforting thoughts next to his chest and waited all the longer. 

For the few moments he was allowed outside each day, (if they remembered,) he could see the seasons change. Leaves began to yellow, to brown, then the tree right on the other side of the fence was a deep red all over. 

No one came to visit. Reginald began to get impatient. 

He swore they were cutting his meals back. He was losing weight at an alarming rate, becoming more tired, constantly hungry. 

His hair was frizzing from the illegal haircuts. He began to see streaks of grey instead of individual hairs. 

How long had he been in here? 

He stopped sleeping, after one attack from a guard in the middle of the night. Woke at every small noise, imagined or real. 

They stopped taking him outside for what only felt like a few days. But when they next let him go for a walk around the tiny yard for solitary prisoners, everything was covered in snow. 

Reginald took to pacing instead of sleeping, pulling anxiously at his overgrown facial hair. 

Not a word. And no one seemed to want to contact him. Not until things began to warm again, when his contact showed up looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. 

They looked him in the eyes and he knew. 

“It went badly,” Reginald breathed, gripping the table. 

The contact nodded. 

His heart sank. How badly? How much treasure was lost, how many Toppats? How badly was Right torturing himself over it? 

“Well?!” He snapped, immediately wincing and sending a look to the guards. 

The contact licked their lips. And once they began, they didn’t stop speaking for a long time. 

No rocket. No treasure. Mass arrests. Sven underground in hiding, Toppats being chased into every hole around the world, scrambling for safety. 

Reginald listened to his empire fall, a crawling, oozing mass where he’d left a formidable beast. 

He had nothing to say. He felt nothing. 

No anger, no rage. The burning fire that had kept him alive was a mere flicker. 

“And one more thing…” The contact pressed their lips together. Avoided his eyes. “Boss…” 

Somehow, he knew. The flicker extinguished completely, leaving him nothing inside anymore. 

“Right is dead.” 

Reginald was the one who said it. Saved the child in front of him the trouble. 

They nodded, and that was it. 

The End. The Toppats were done. Reginald was now absolutely alone. 

Right. 

“You should leave,” Reginald told the child calmly. “Go.” 

“I can’t come back once I do, Chief.” 

“I’m not the Chief anymore,” The man was all poise and elegance. “Switch your alliance to Sven. Remind him of what’s at stake.” 

Then he stood. And he had them take him back to his new home. 

Right was dead. 

How? Had it been quick or slow? Had he thought about Reginald at all? Had he felt guilty, like he’d failed? Too dim, too slow, a man who shouldn’t be in charge at all? He’d never know how proud he’d been of him. Couldn't assure him of how much he loved the man, no matter what outcome they were given. Would never be in his company again, silent and ever-watchful. Would never see him again. 

Reginald expected to be full of rage when one of them met their eventual end. He hadn’t expected this pressing emptiness. 

He felt nothing. Nothing at all. 

He dreamed at night of being home, wrapped in expensive sheets and blankets, warm arms. The sounds of the airship in his ear. The promise of tomorrow. It was the only time he felt anything other than existence. 

The Toppats were burning. There would be no rescue. 

He’d grown with that organization. Become someone new. With Right- his beloved Enforcer- by his side, Reginald had been King of the World. 

Dethroned, now. There wasn’t anything left. 

Reginald had one last plan. One last heist.

You needed something sharp to cut your hair, of course. You weren’t allowed anything sharp, but Reginald was a very clever man. 

He was going to make sure he took as many of these bastards down as he could before they finally got him. 

Broken fingers reached for the object, squeezed to test the sharpness, feel the pain. 

And Reginald stepped outside his cell for the last time.


End file.
